Now evening, I’m out
on the allotment putting back on
the hat of a child’s scarecrow
for the show tomorrow.
I am the curator, the unseen
hand in the rain.. I’m singing
a Fool’s song from King Lear
when you appear, saying:
come and look at this one.
And you know, I don’t know how,
that Art is
this scarecrow-sylph
slipped in, with its pure poem
of being;
raffia cap,
arm at that angle,
Help The Aged bag.
You have to make a stand.
Nicholas Bradley, Autumn 2004